


sense memory

by nbsherlock



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 16:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20549276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbsherlock/pseuds/nbsherlock
Summary: it’s the sand and it’s the stars and it’s the wind but it isn’t any of that at all.





	sense memory

the shape becomes less important than the colors. pale white blonde blue. second is the taste, acrid stale vodka and weed and vodka and weed and kneeling in front of the toilet laughing and choking it back up. 

kotku, from before, in contrast to him. dark long hair, hard unwavering glance. theo on the concrete talking about death. it rewinds and fast forwards, faster faster until you’re in stockholm shaking in the cold and an ice blue blonde blur touches you and pulls you in by the coat collar. 

she pushes you down. she’s soft but inhumanly pretty. she bites at you with white white teeth and kisses you before you get on a plane to— the painting. or a man who had the painting. him, always him. years later, hands buried deep in deep pockets. it’s still him, painted in broad strokes on canvas and chained to your head. shot, clap on the back. za zdorovie. shot, tug at the hair at the nape of your neck. shot, body crumpling to the ground. blood pooling. za zdorovie, what the fuck. 

and then you’re in vegas. you don’t know how you ended up back here. you’re wasted and you can see the eiffel tower. you can hear the creak of a swingset. chlorine in the eyes, nose, mouth. shot, hand on the back of your neck, mouth on your mouth, slot machine ringing in your ear. 

“i want to die.” and “please, let me die.” and “it was my fault.”

he’s unconscious on the bathroom floor in an apartment that smells like home. not your home, not even his. pale white blonde blue but red red red. 

sometimes you’ll see someone walking a small white dog around your block and think you dreamt it. in your hands and then swept away. sand and wind and you’re flat on your back. you’re in the sky and he isn’t there but someone is and they’re inside of you. 

the stars are so bright. 

you wake up in south africa. there’s no one in the bed with you but your spine aches like someone was. your phone is ringing. 

soft, sweet voice. return flight. boarding time. you let your head droop until you see it. it can’t be anything else— it could be anything else. you peel back paper and see it unclothed. 

the sand, the stars. the painting blown back into your hands. him with his glasses off and fist rubbing at red eyes. my mother. or, his mother. your mother. your father, his father with windshield in his head. and he got on a bus and went home. and he asked you to come with him. 

you, star of david on your skin. you, outside yourself and checking in on xandra. you, fucking mess, lip bitten and bleeding red red red. and then you wake up and the painting is gone. you have another child. god, traced topography, ley lines from vegas to your marital bed to the painting to him. palm read, life line a brush stroke unrefined. 

you dream of him in a museum. you dream of him going in and buying a ticket and walking back out unscathed. sometimes you are there. sometimes the painting hangs on the wall. sometimes it is in your bag burning a hole into your side. sometimes the painting is destroyed at your feet and he is the painting and he is destroyed at your feet and you feel finally like you have done him some good. “please, let me die.”

you dream of him dying until he is real and in front of you and he is taller than you suddenly. pressed shirt and blank face. jesus christ. your face feels frozen. the awe and the adoration and the need to be touching him now now now. but the time is— well, okay. you glance over your shoulder. you tell him please wait and you don’t say because i need to touch you i need to know that you’re real. fuck’s sake, potter. the glasses, the pressed shirt. the blank face. 

and then, shot, shot, shot. he’s laughing. you’re laughing because he’s laughing. it looks like it hurts him to laugh. face contorted. unnatural. you hope he keeps doing it. you’re drunk. or he’s drunk and you’re in love with him. 

the joke of it. of the painting and of everything and you’re back at his door and pressing face to fur. and then the engagement party. and then, suddenly, amsterdam. 

the joke of it. his laughter in the car and the liquor and the gun and the painting and you’re bleeding out— vision in and out and. shot, man down. shot, you’re driving a car. and theo gets out of the car and walks to the hotel. and you wake up with that feeling. 

he’s face down in a bathroom that smells like home but not his home not your home. you pull him back. you touch him and he’s real. the joke of the painting, of the money. of his panic, underneath your skin. your panic. 

and then you’re on a plane. the colors, the blonde and blue and white that you have to look up to see. like stretching every part of yourself up and up to see something far away and you’re in the middle of a crowd stretching up to see him too. he’s asleep and he looks sick but you know better. you know he’s healing. you know because you feel it inside. because your insides are the same. because this time you fall asleep and wake up in the same place you were before. because he’s real and you’re in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> returning to my roots writing batshit stream of consciousness garbage in my notes app, calling it poetry, and impulsively posting it. my tumblr is @margaritaville


End file.
